Privilege

[Repugnant Abomination]

Third draft. Let me know what you think.

Privilege

Tamara and Amber sat on the lumpy green sofa, entangled in each others arms like seaweed. Amber’s skin was darker than Tamara’s, but her body was like a blank sheet of paper. She had no tattoo’s or piercing’s, not even on her ears. She told people it was because she didn’t like pain. Even her eyes were just plain brown, not like Tamara’s, which had speckles of grey. Tamara had 3 tattoos and 8 piercing’s – 6 on her ears, 1 in her nose, and 1 in her tongue. The pitter-patter of rain sounded overhead, and blue, biting wind tossed debris against the living room window. 3 p.m. and Amber still hadn’t eaten.
“I’m doing it. Cross your fingers,” Tamara said, pulling away from Amber and picking up the phone from the coffee table with rings on its worn surface. She dialed.
“Well?” Amber said.
“Shhh, it’s ringing. Hi! I’m calling about the apartment advertised in the paper, the one on Circle St. Is it still available? ”
“Oh yes, yes of course,” the man said, his voice becoming pleasant.
“Great, when can we come and look at it?”
“I have some time right now.”
“Perfect! We can be there in 20 minutes,” she said.
Amber smiled and squeezed Tamara’s arm and said, “I can’t believe this is really happening. We’ll finally have a place of our own. Not that I could ever forget what’s his name,” she rolled her eyes.
“Oh come on, give Pat a break, he’s a decent guy.”

They arrived early and stood out front, pressed together for warmth. Tamara held a black umbrella to shelter them. Amber leaned up to kiss Tamara, but she turned her face and said, “not right now.”
“We should really move to California, you know. It hardly rains.”
Tamara nudged Amber, “stop whining.”
A group of birds picked at indistinguishable road kill; nature’s garbage men, cleaning up what nobody else wanted. The birds scattered as a white 67 Volkswagen sped by and parked. A portly man in his mid 50’s stepped out of the vehicle, his comb-over and fake gold watch as visually offensive as his beat up car. He walked passed them, going to unlock the door.
“Excuse me?” Tamara said.
“Yes?” The man said, fidgeting with the lock.
“We’re here to see the apartment.” Tamara said, putting her arm around Amber, who was staring at the ground.
The man stopped what he was doing and looked at them. Amber felt his eyes, baleful, running over her. It wasn’t the first time someone had looked at her – at them – like that. He adjusted his poke-a-dot tie and smiled beguiling at them.
“There you are. I tried calling you after we spoke, but you must have already left. I forgot I have an appointment in 15 minutes. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I’ll need to reschedule.
“Oh, ok. Well, do you need our number again?” Tamara asked, feeling Ambers body stiffen.
“No, it’s still in my cell. I’ll call to reschedule later today,” he said, hurrying by them towards his car, “and sorry again.”
Tamara followed him, asking questions about the neighborhood as they walked, but Amber didn’t move. Her brown eyes remained downcast, like she was trying to read the sidewalk. As he sped away Amber felt the distance between her and Tamara grow, like the landlord has thrust a gulf between them that could not be reconciled.

Amber sat on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, eyes staring out the window. To her left was Pat, eating a slice of pizza and watching a basketball game on TV. To her right was Tamara, sitting on the recliner with a half empty bottle of Bacardi in her lap, which she would drink from every few minutes. She knew Pat was oblivious, but obviously Tamara was able to handle what happened. She smoothed her hand over her shirt, sucking in her stomach as it passed over. Occasionally she glanced at Tamara, who she knew was avoiding her. Finally she stood up and walked to the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards loudly, looking for something that wasn’t there.
“Are you sure you don’t want a slice of pizza, Amber?” Pat asked over his shoulder. She didn’t respond. Instead she grabbed a diet coke from the fridge and crossed the living room to Tamara’s bedroom, giving her one last arduous look before disappearing into the other room and shutting the door.
“You can be a real ass sometimes, Pat,” Tamara said, taking another drink. Alcohol was a social lubricant for most, but for Tamara it was an alibi.
“I just offered her some food,” he said.
“You know how she is,” Tamara said.
“No, I don’t. I never know what’s going on around here. Why is everyone so pissed off? It’s the weekend; we should be having fun.”
Tamara stood, wobbly, and said, “She’s just upset about something that happened earlier. I’ll be back later.”
Amber heard the door slam and frowned. The walls around her were white, but covered in posters and pictures: Bob Marley, Malcolm X, Sylvia Plath, The Beatles, a Disney Princess collage, photos of Tamara and Amber together, and pictures Amber had taken for the photography class she dropped out of. A bed just large enough to accommodate two bodies pressed against the far wall. There was a desk set up in the corner with a laptop. Amber sat at the desk and turned the laptop on. She went to google images and typed in “cupcakes”. Her stomach knotted as she clicked through the pictures, imagining how the multicolored frosting would taste on her tongue. She pretended to smell them and feel their texture against her fingertips. It was in this way she tried to calm her cravings. It never worked. She traced her fingernail along the surface of the oak desk, unconsciously sucking in her stomach. She wondered where Tamara went, and thought about the apartment that would never be theirs, and about the man from earlier too, how he had added to the gulf between them, uncovering a painful truth that they had tried to bury. It always started like this. First the vague feeling of anxiety, brought on by stress that gradually increased into physical symptoms: sweaty palms, stomach pain, increased heart rate, and shortness of breath. It always ended the same way too.

Rain poured oppressively down on Tamara’s hooded head as she walked the streets of downtown Seattle. The night life was in full bloom. Faces she had never seen before were everywhere, yet they were always the same. The under 21 crowd, the drunk college kids, the 30 but I’m still cool guys, the 50 year old couples coming back from dinner and ice cream, and the sordid 40 year old men looking to pick up on any girls who had just a little too much to drink. She didn’t fit in with any of them, she thought. She was the gay black girl who studied medieval Russian literature, who intimidated guys her age and was called a dyke by girls who felt threatened by her. She once heard a rumor that one of the frats on campus nicknamed her the “the midnight dyke,” but she didn’t know if it was true or not. Two blocks from the strip club she was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. In her stomach and small intestines, blood vessels carried it to the blood stream to be metabolized by the liver. The central nervous system was slowing and motor skills, reaction time, and intelligent thought were diminishing; Blissful inebriation.
Rob Zombie and cigarettes and sweat and hollers and flashing lights assaulted her senses, she never felt more at home. She didn’t tell Amber about these visits, she wouldn’t approve. Tamara considered her disregard for Amber’s feelings an act of mercy; all lovers kept secrets in order not to hurt the other. As she pushed her way to the bar an Asian girl dancing on stage caught her attention. She gyrated her hips to the beat, pressing erotically against the pole on stage and twirling around it. With a twist of her hips she ripped her skirt off, and Tamara cheered with everyone else.
“What’ll it be, sugar pie?” The bartender said.
“Vodka Red Bull,” she said, still watching the girl on stage. She had nicer breasts than Amber’s. “Do you take cards?”
“Cash only,” he said, setting her drink in front of her.
She slid him a 20 and then pushed off the bar, gravitating towards the stage. Hues of gold and green flickered and flashed from the ceiling, illuminating swirling smoke from cigars and cigarettes, creating a haze. It was a fog Tamara appreciated. It fed her need for an altered reality, a few precious hours when she wasn’t who she was. The energy in the room was electrifying. She felt like part of the collective mass, all forming together to make the club what it is, a haven for self-indulgence. As the Asian girl finished gathering the bills thrown onstage a man standing next to Tamara yelled over the noise, “How’s it going?”, and smiled at her. She laughed and cheered louder as the girl on stage bowed and scurried off. The man next to her clapped and then turned his attention back on Tamara.
“Buy you a drink?”
Tamara thought of Amber moping around her and Pat’s apartment, the faithful girlfriend who couldn’t give her what she wanted, and made her feel guilty about it. She thought how her decisions were always compromised by her relationship, always leaving her unsatisfied. About the summer she wanted to buy a motorcycle and travel across the country so she could feel what it was like to be free, a creation of God, between sky and ocean, and how Amber didn’t approve.
“Vodka tonic,” she said.
The pair sat down at a table near the back of the room.
“What’s your name?”
“Tamara.”
“I’m Jack. You come here often?”
“When I need to unwind,” she said.
He slapped his hand on the table and said, “That’s so cool! I wish more girls were like you.”
Tamara grinned. All her problems were drowning in alcohol and compliments. She noticed a table across the room of men watching her, and she leaned forward, saying, “friends of yours?”
Jack glanced at the table and laughed. “Yeah, they’re probably dying of jealousy right now. I’m the only one out of us who’s managed to get a beautiful girl to talk with him.”
Tamara smiled and finished her drink, gripping the edge of the table for support.
“I’m drunk!”
Jack laughed and nodded, “I know.”
She didn’t know who was playing over the speakers, but the music was like an aphrodisiac. She closed her eyes, sucking on her bottom lip and rocking her shoulders and hips to the hypnotic beat, feeling it stir dormant memories and feelings.
“You know what would be sexy? If you got on stage and danced like that for everyone.”
Tamara opened her eyes and saw nothing but truth on Jacks face. Without pause she stood and sashayed to the stage. Jack ran to the table his friends were at, giddy.
“She’s doing it! I convinced the midnight dyke to dance! Get out your cameras boys, this is gonna be good.”

Growing up a middle class white boy in Iowa hadn’t prepared Pat for city life, or “diversity”, as his mother put it. She had a large vocabulary full of language to disguise her closet racism, and was a quick study on how to use it in the most politically correct yet backhanded ways, “She’s pretty for a black girl,” she once said of Naomi Campbell. Pat never saw what the big deal was though. He was friends with everybody. For his senior prom he asked Anita, the Mexican girl in the wheelchair everyone was nice to but kept at a distance, to be his date. His mother thought he did it to spite her, but he was just taking his convictions and applying it to his actions. He danced with her all night, not out of pity or guilt, but because she was beautiful and intelligent and didn’t even know it. To this day it was still the best date he’s ever been on. He thought about Anita a lot lately, and how she, and most people, needed outside confirmation of positive qualities, and how they rarely get them. Sighing, he cast Anita from his thoughts and rolled out of bed, going to the kitchen for a glass of water. As he walked back to his room he heard a strange sound coming from the bathroom.
Amber shoved two fingers down her throat, self-inducing the gag reflex and vomiting into the toilet. She hugged it, crying into the seat. Pat pressed his ear to the door and then tapped it on.
“Amber? Are you ok?” Pat asked.
“Go away.”
Pat twisted the knob, and to his surprise the door opened. What he saw made his heart ache in a way it never had, like he was feeling it for the first time.
“Amber…”
She couldn’t act angry or indignant anymore. She just cried, unabashed. Pat knelt down beside her and she threw her arms around him, burying her face into his shoulder.
“What’s wrong, Amber?”
She looked up at him, the edges of her lips caked with vomit.
“Please don’t tell anyone, Pat,” she said.
He grabbed a hand towel from the sink, wet it, and then knelt again, wiping gently at her mouth.
“Not a soul,” he said, still cleaning her off.
“You must think I’m pathetic,” she said.
“I’ll never think that, Amber. Come on, let’s get you into bed,” he said, helping her up and leading her to Tamara’s room. Amber lay down and closed her eyes. Pat drifted around the room, looking around like he hadn’t been in it in months.
“I never understood why you two hung up that Disney Princess poster. It doesn’t fit in.”
“It’s just a reminder, that’s all.”
“A reminder for what?” he asked.
“What do all the Princesses have in common, Pat?”
He studied it closer, looking for anything that stood out. Maybe the artists forgot to color in Aurora’s hair, or draw Bell’s hands, or didn’t give Cinderella her slippers. Then he realized what it was. He faced Amber, feeling completely inadequate and overwhelmed.

Tamara stumbled home, struggling to hold her torn shirt together over her chest. Her back was covered in scratches, but it was nothing compared to the shame and degradation she felt.

The next morning Pat was woken up by the phone ringing in the living room. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, stumbling out of bed. He stretched in his doorway. The door next to his opened, and Tamara and Amber came out in their robes, Amber leaning her head sleepily against Tamara’s shoulder.
“Morning,” Pat said, as the message machine did its thing.
“Hi, you’ve reached Pat and Tamara’s apartment; we’re not home right now, so leave a message.”
“Hi, this is John Waterman calling about the apartment on Circle St. Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday, but the apartment rented. Sorry for the trouble.”
There was a long, oppressive silence in the room as the three of them stood there, each contemplating what they had heard.
“Come on, let’s go back to bed,” Tamara finally said, and her and Amber disappeared back into her room.
Pat stood there. He thought about his mother and Nicole, and about Tamara and Ron Waterman and Amber, and all his buddies back in Iowa, and the friends he had made in Seattle and the Disney Princesses. He thought about all of them.

[THEINCREDIBLEdork]

youre getting a lot better

[THEINCREDIBLEdork]

i'd like you to add a little more beaver rubbing

[Repugnant Abomination]

lol, k thanks.

Most of the feedback I've gotten so far is that I need to slow down, that the scenes are too rushed. It's a valid complaint, but the problem is I'm working with a 3000 word limit. It's a work in progress.

[ninjaface]

Just get the entire story on paper and fuck around with it then.

[Repugnant Abomination]

That's what I'm doing, dude.

[Orgazmo]

Personally, I liked the rush scene feeling. Shit happening is the best way for me to actually care about stories that I'm reading.

I liked it a lot.

Agree w/Dork about more vaginasex, though. Maybe patrick can blackmail the pukey bitch for sex? Just a possible plot line. Feel it out.

Edit: Christ...that took me 20 minutes to read? There are 2 replies when I open the thread, yet my reply is the 5th. What the fuck is this world coming to?

[Repugnant Abomination]

4th draft. I think this one is a lot better, and quite a bit different. Thoughts/comments are mucho appreciated.

Privilege
It always started the same, anxiety and stress, gradually increasing to sweaty palms, stomach pain, increased heart rate, and shortness of breath. It always ended the same too; two fingers down her throat and vomit in the toilet. Today was a good day. Tamara was coming home early from the tattoo parlor, and they were going to spend the afternoon looking at apartments. Amber washed her mouth out in the sink, and glanced at the mirror. She saw black, accentuated cheek bones and a wide nose. She frowned.
The living room smelt of worn leather and rain. Dirty dishes, Pat’s, littered the stained oak coffee table, in front of the green sofa they bought at a garage sale for 15 dollars. The walls were adorned with pictures of the ocean she had taken for a photography class she dropped out of 3 weeks in. Rays of light cut through dark Seattle rain clouds and trickled in through the far window, illuminating a ‘1500 words you should know’ book that belonged to Pat. The tick-tocking of the cat shaped clock filled the room. Amber worked her bottom lip between her teeth. She walked to the front door and looked through the peephole, then paced in the dim hallway, pinching her palm between meticulously manicured nails. 3:15. She dialed Tamara’s number, sucking in her slender stomach and prodding it. No answer. She walked to the living room and sat down, crossing her legs and drumming her fingertips on the arm of the couch. She picked up pat’s book and opened it to the middle.
Pulchritude (PUL-kri-tood), noun
Beauty. Pulchritude is derived from the Latin word for “beautiful.”
Amber tossed the book aside and looked at the clock, 3:17. She got up and opened the front door, wandering into the hallway and looking around, and then she went back inside and locked the door.
***
“I’m home!” Tamara called out, dropping her bags in the hallway, “are you ready to go?”
Amber rushed across the room and wrapped around Tamara, kissing her before she could speak.
“I missed you,” Amber said.
“Are you ready to go?”
Amber paused, “let me get my purse.”
***
In Seattle there is every kind of rain. Today it poured fat droplets from the backdrop of a gray sky, like the speckles in Tamara’s eyes. They beat on the surface of her 91 Honda, saving her a trip to the carwash.
“So I was like, hey, relax, you can say black, I’m not gonna get pissed,” Tamara steered with her left hand and massaged Ambers thigh with her right, “you know? Anyway, I think it’s this next left.”
“What did he say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Before,” Amber said.
“African American,” she rolled her eyes, “like I’ve ever been to Africa. Here it is.”
A group of crows picked at indistinguishable road kill in the middle of the road, then scattered as Tamara parked beside the curb.
“Lovely,” Amber made a face at the death scene, and then reached for Tamara’s hand.
“Not right now,” she said, putting her hands in her pockets.
The apartment complex was painted yellow and chipped in places, worn by rain and time. A narrow cement walkway lead to the entrance, flanked by dry brown grass with scattered toys across it. Amber caught an elderly woman in a rocking chair peering at them through her window, who made no attempt to hide her curiosity once noticed. A soda machine hummed dully as they passed and a mangy cat with brown spots skittered out from under it and disappeared into the bushes on the other side.
“23 D, this is it,” Tamara said, twisting the bronze doorknob. The smell of cigarettes and mold lingered in the stuffy room. There was a hole in the wall to the right, and the carpet was brown and splotchy, with bronze lining along the edge to separate it from the cheap tiled entrance.
“No way,” Amber said, standing in the doorway.
“Look, it has a dishwasher.”
“No.”
Tamara grit her teeth, “fine,” she pushed passed Amber.
The wind picked up on the drive home, rocking the car along the highway. Amber gripped the edge of her seat and pressed her feet against the floor, “slow down, Tamara.”
Tamara pressed harder on the gas. There was a silence Tamara’s twitching jaw dared Amber to break.
“Tamara -“
“What?” she cut her off.
“That place was a dump.”
“Well maybe if you got a job we could afford something nicer.”
Amber didn’t feel like talking anymore.
***
The sound of sizzling meat greeted them in the hallway, and
The smell of sausage wafted through the apartment. They hadn’t spoke, and Pat’s voice was a welcome distraction, “Hey, I’m making spaghetti and sausage if you girls are hungry.”
“Thanks Pat, maybe later,” Tamara said, smelling the food over his shoulder.
“I’m not hungry,” Amber said, grabbing a diet coke from the fridge and disappearing into Tamara’s room.
Pat sprinkled garlic powder over the sauce and licked his fingers, “I’m thinking about joining the chess club at school.”
Tamara rolled her eyes, “stick to checkers, Pat.”
Pat kept his eyes down, his blood bubbling like the sauce he stirred.
“I’ll be back later,” she said, heading for the door before he could ask where she was going. He put a lid over the sauce and sat at the kitchen table, picking his book up and studying the chess diagram. ‘Can white save himself by playing King-takes-Rook in this position?’ After careful deliberation Pat concluded yes and turned the page. ‘No. In this case the Queen, which is giving check, also protects the Rook. White is checkmated.’
***
Amber heard the door slam and sighed. The walls around her were white, and covered in posters and pictures: Bob Marley, Malcolm X, Sylvia Plath, The Beatles, a Disney Princess collage, photos of Tamara and Amber together, and pictures Amber had taken of different sceneries. The faint smell of sweat and sex lingered around the bed, just large enough to accommodate two bodies. Atop the corner desk the pale glow of a laptop screen pressed against the darkness. She sat and turned it on. Her desktop background was a close up of Tamara laughing. It was taken the night they stayed up drinking wine and talking about when they came out. ‘My dad was so flustered I thought he was going to explode,’ Tamara had said with a grin. Amber clicked the internet icon and google searched cupcakes. Her stomach growled as she clicked through pictures, imagining how the multicolored frosting would taste. She pretended to smell them and feel their texture against the roof of her mouth. She traced her fingernail along the surface of the desk, wondering where Tamara went, and thinking about the apartment that would never be theirs.
***
The night life was in full bloom. Faces she had never seen before were everywhere, yet they were always the same. The under 21 crowd, the drunk college kids, the 30 but I’m still cool guys, the 50 year old couples coming back from dinner and ice cream, and the sordid 40 year old men looking to pick up on any girls who had too much to drink. She didn’t fit in with any of them, she thought. She was the gay black girl, who studied medieval Russian literature, had a piercing fetish, and was adopted. She veered left as group of attractive college girls from her literature theory class brushed by.
“Dyke,” one of them said, just loud enough to hear, followed by muffled laughter. Tamara stopped and glared at them over her shoulder, but they didn’t notice. She pressed on. She walked several blocks, until stopping in front of a white house with green trimming and a modest yard. The porch light was on. She thought about Amber moping around her and Pat’s apartment, the faithful girlfriend who couldn’t give her what she wanted, and made her feel guilty about it. She thought how her decisions were always compromised by her relationship, always leaving her unsatisfied. About the summer she wanted to buy a motorcycle and travel across the country so she could feel what it was like to be free, a creation of God, between sky and ocean, and how Amber didn’t approve. She lingered on the sidewalk, looking over her shoulder and kicking a small stone. Finally, she walked through the yard and knocked.
Sarah opened the door and pulled her inside, “you came.”
“Of course,” Tamara smiled.
Sarah had flawless white skin, except for a few freckles on her nose. She was tall, and had shoulder length blonde hair that was braided. She kept a neat house.
“Come on, I’ll put on some tea. Do you like peppermint?”
“Yes, thank you,” Tamara said, hanging her coat on the rack. She followed Sarah to the kitchen and sat down on the counter. Sarah filled the cherry red kettle with water and set it on the stove. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled over her shoulder, “I made some fudge if you’re hungry.”
“Sure.”
She removed a tray from the oven and held it up for Tamara, who took a piece and ate it in one bite, “Mmm, Sarah, this is delicious,” she said, covering her mouth as she spoke.
“Thanks. Apparently culinary school wasn’t a waste of money after all. All I did was add a cup of sugar and –“
“Amber and I looked at apartments today,” she said, cutting her off.
Sarah paused, and then set the tray down. She leaned her hip against the refrigerator and folded her arms, “Did you find anything? I hear there are some nice places on the east end of the city.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
Tamara slid down from the counter and tried to hug her, but she turned away as the kettle began to whistle and turned off the burner.
“I can’t do this anymore, Tamara. I’m almost 30 and I need some security in my life,” she poured two cups of tea and offered Tamara one.”
“You’re only 27,” she blew on the tea, “but yeah, I know.”
“You need to decide, it’s either her or me.”
Tamara went to the kitchen table and sat down, cupping the mug between her hands. Steam swirled up, and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply the aroma of peppermint tea leaves. Sarah followed and sat across from her, her light blue eyes trying to read Tamara’s face.
“I love you,” she reached across the table and took her hand, “what are you thinking?”
Tamara felt the warmth from the room envelope her, like Thanksgiving, when friends and family get together for one day, and cast aside any bad feelings, because in the end what’s important is to love, and be loved by. She opened her eyes and squeezed Saraha’s hand.
***
Amber came out into the living room to find Pat on the couch in his pajamas, staring at the ceiling. She followed his gaze and then looked at him like he was crazy. She walked passed him and stopped in front of the bookshelf, looking it over before squatting and rummaging around the pile of papers on the floor. She blew her bangs out of her eyes and stood up, looking around, hands on hips. She checked the coffee table, then the kitchen table, sighing louder each time. She went to the movie cabinet and searched it.
“Ugh!” she glanced at Pat and then coughed and cleared her throat several times. Finally she stomped to the front of the couch and kicked his shin.
“Hey!”
“Ow!” Pat leveled his gaze on her, rubbing his shin, “what?”
“Have you seen my digital camera?”
“Yeah, like I’m some kind of impotent, all knowing God or something. No I don’t know where your camera is.”
Amber’s lips twitched, and she folded her arms over her chest and tilted her head to the side, “Yeah, you’re definitely impotent, Pat, unless you meant omnipotent,” she said, “better keep studying your book.” Pat’s cheeks flushed and he lowered his eyes. Amber frowned, wishing she hadn’t said anything. She turned, when Pat said, “Where do you think Tamara is?” Amber faced him, pinching her palm between her nails, and glanced at the clock.
“I don’t know,” she said, lowering to sit beside him.
“You know,” Pat began, “When I was in high school I was the captain of the football team. I guess I was the stereotypical jock. I did everything I thought I was supposed to do, based on my social status at school. I would give underclassmen wedgies and sleep with as many girls as I could. Senior year I asked the homecoming queen to be my date – she accepted, of course, it was more a formality than anything else, something high school royalty, if you can stomach that idea, did,” he adjusted his body to face her, and continued. “She was a total bitch and I was miserable the whole time, like I knew I’d be. I almost left the dance to go get drunk with my buddies, and that’s when I saw Anita. She was a girl in our school who was in a wheelchair. Everyone politely ignored her, because she made us uncomfortable. I decided to do something unexpected of me – I asked her to dance, and it was the most fun I ever had at a dance. I had no idea how funny she was.”
Amber squinted and chewed her lip gently, “I don’t understand, what am I –“
“The point is,” he continued, “is that I took that homecoming queen, Jennifer, to prom because I thought it was a good match, I thought it was the natural choice. After I danced that night with Anita I decided to never make that mistake again.”
“Is that why you want to join the chess team?” she asked.
Pat shrugged and grabbed the remote, turning the TV on. Amber’s phone rang from Tamara’s room. She jumped off the couch and ran into the bedroom, answering, “Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Hi Tamara,” Amber said, sitting down.
“We need to talk.”

[THEINCREDIBLEdork]

weak

[Orgazmo]

Meh. I liked the first one better.

[Repugnant Abomination]

Final draft.

Between homes

It always started the same: Stress, anxiety, sweaty palms, stomach pain, increased heart rate, and shortness of breath. It always ended the same too; two fingers down her throat and vomit in the toilet. Today was a good day. Tamara was coming home early from the tattoo parlor, and they were going to spend the afternoon looking at apartments. Amber washed her mouth out in the sink, and glanced at the mirror. A black face with penciled in eyebrows and a wide nose stared at her. She frowned.
The living room smelled of worn leather and rain. Dirty dishes, Patrick’s, littered the stained oak coffee table, in front of the green sofa they bought at a garage sale for 15 dollars. Adorned on the walls were pictures of the ocean she had taken for a photography class she dropped out of 3 weeks in. Rays of light cut through dark Seattle rain clouds and trickled in through dirty windows, illuminating a ‘1500 words you should know’ book, also Pat’s. Tick-tocking filled the room. Amber worked her bottom lip between her teeth, and checked her cell phone for missed calls - none. She walked to the front door and peered through the peephole, then paced in the dim hallway, pinching her palm between meticulously manicured nails. 3:15. Dialing Tamara’s number, she sucked in her slender stomach and prodded it. No answer. In the kitchen a charred pan and half empty pot of day old stew sat on the stove next to the refrigerator with a rainbow ‘CELEBRATE DIVERSITY’ magnet stuck to its grainy surface. She grabbed a diet coke and moved to the living room, sitting down, crossing her legs, and drumming her fingers on the arm of the couch. She picked up pat’s book and opened it to the middle.
Pulchritude (PUL-kri-tood), noun
Beauty. Pulchritude is derived from the Latin word for “beautiful.”
Amber tore the page from the book and crumpled it in her hand, then tossed it across the room. 3:17. She got up and opened the front door, wandering into the hallway and looking around, and then she went back inside.
***
Tamara slipped into the apartment and eased the door shut.
“Amber?” she waited, and then hurried into her room. She went to her dresser and crouched, opening the bottom drawer and hiding a black box from her purse beneath a pile of wrinkled shirts. As she stood she heard the sink running through the wall.
“I’m home!” Tamara called out, going out into the living room.
Amber rushed across the room and wrapped around Tamara, kissing her before she could speak.
“I missed you,” Amber said.
“Are you ready to go?”
Amber paused, “What’s that smell?”
“Let’s go, it’s already 3:30,” Tamara started for the door.
“Let me get my purse.”
***
In Seattle there is every kind of rain. Today fat droplets fell from the backdrop of a gray sky, like the speckles in Tamara’s eyes. They beat on the surface of her 91 Honda, saving her a trip to the carwash.
“So I was like, hey, relax, you can say black, I’m not gonna get pissed,” Tamara steered with her left hand and gestured with her right, “you know? Anyway, I think it’s this next left.”
“What did he say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Before,” Amber said.
“African American,” she rolled her eyes, “like I’ve ever been to Africa. Here it is.”
A group of crows picked at indistinguishable road kill in the middle of the road, then scattered as Tamara parked beside the curb.
“Lovely,” Amber made a face at the death scene, and then reached for Tamara’s hand.
“Not right now,” she put her hands in her pockets.
The apartment complex was painted yellow and chipped in places, worn by rain and time. A narrow cement walkway lead to the entrance, flanked by dry brown grass with scattered toys across it. An elderly woman in a rocking chair peered at them through her window, and made no attempt to hide her curiosity once noticed. A soda machine hummed dully as they passed and a mangy cat with brown spots skittered out from behind it and disappeared into the bushes on the other side.
“23 D, this is it,” Tamara said, twisting the bronze doorknob. The stench of cigarettes and mold lingered in the stuffy room. There was a hole in the wall to the right, and the carpet was brown and splotchy, with bronze lining along the edge to separate it from the cheap tiled entrance.
“No way,” Amber said, standing in the doorway.
“Look, it has a dishwasher.”
“No.”
Tamara grit her teeth, “fine.”
The wind picked up on the drive home, rocking the car along the highway. Amber gripped the edge of her seat and pressed her feet against the floor amidst McDonald’s wrappers and empty water bottles, “slow down, Tamara.”
She pressed harder on the gas. There was silence Tamara’s twitching jaw dared Amber to break.
“Tamara -“
“What?” she cut her off.
“That place was a dump.”
“If you got a job we could afford something nicer.”
Amber shifted her body towards the window and pressed her forehead against it. The cold felt good. Tree’s whipped by, and she closed her eyes to keep from getting dizzy.
“You’re 25 and out of school, you need to have a job,” Tamara lectured. When Amber opened her eyes she was parallel to a white Lexus in the next lane. Inside was a family – a husband and wife and two little boys in the back with a golden retriever sitting between them – one played with a Star Wars action figure and the other pet the dog. As they merged onto exit 35 Amber strained to keep them in sight, not wanting to let them go.
“Are you listening, Amber?”
“I don’t feel good.”
***
The sound and smell of sizzling meat greeted them in the hallway. They hadn’t spoken, and Pat’s voice was a welcome distraction, “I’m making spaghetti and sausage if you girls are hungry.”
“Thanks Pat, maybe later,” Tamara said, smelling the food over his shoulder.
“I’m not hungry,” Amber said, grabbing a diet coke from the fridge and disappearing into Tamara’s room.
Pat sprinkled garlic powder over the sauce and licked his fingers, “I’m thinking about joining the chess club at school.”
Tamara rolled her eyes, “stick to checkers, Pat.”
Pat kept his eyes down, his blood bubbling like the sauce he stirred.
“I’ll be back later,” she said, heading for the door before he could ask where she was going. He put a lid over the sauce and sat at the kitchen table, picking his book up and studying the chess diagram. ‘Can white save himself by playing King-takes-Rook in this position?’ After careful deliberation Pat concluded yes and turned the page. ‘No. In this case the Queen, which is giving check, also protects the Rook. White is checkmated.’
***
Amber heard the door slam and sighed. The walls around her were white, and covered in posters and pictures: Malcolm X, a Disney Princess collage, photos of Tamara and Amber together, and pictures Amber had taken of different sceneries. The faint smell of sweat and sex lingered around the bed, just large enough to accommodate two bodies. Atop the corner desk the pale glow of a laptop screen pressed against the darkness. She stood in front of the Disney poster and studied Bell and Aurora, Cinderella and Snow White. She grew up wanting to look like them. She was still growing. Moving to the desk, she turned on the laptop. Her desktop background was a close up of Tamara laughing, taken the night they stayed up drinking wine and talking about when they came out. ‘My dad was so shocked I thought he was going to explode,’ Tamara had said with a grin. Amber clicked the internet icon and google searched cupcakes. Her stomach growled as she clicked through pictures, imagining how the multicolored frosting would taste. She pretended to smell them and feel their texture against the roof of her mouth. Light from the screen silhouetted her outline as she sat slumped, and lowered her face to her hands.
***
The night life was in full bloom. Faces she had never seen were everywhere downtown, but always the same. The under 21 crowd, the drunk college kids, the 30 but I’m still cool guys, the 50 year old couples coming back from dinner and ice cream, and the sordid 40 year old men looking to pick up on any girls who had too much to drink. She didn’t fit in with any of them, she thought. She was the gay black girl with short hair, who studied medieval Russian literature, who bounced around foster homes growing up and had a piercing fetish because she thought pain and art were beautiful. A group of girls from her literature theory class passed by, and she veered left to avoid them.
“Dyke,” one of them said, just loud enough to hear, followed by muffled laughter. Tamara glared at them over her shoulder, but they didn’t notice.
She walked several blocks, until stopping in front of a white house with green trimming and a well kept yard. She thought about Amber moping around her and Pat’s apartment, the girlfriend who couldn’t give her what she wanted, and made her feel guilty about it. She thought how her decisions were always compromised by her relationship, always leaving her unsatisfied. About the summer she wanted to buy a motorcycle and travel cross country so she could feel what it was like to be free, a creation of God, between sky and ocean, and how Amber didn’t approve. She lingered on the sidewalk, looking over her shoulder and kicking a small stone. Finally, she walked through the yard, passed the rose bushes and porch swing, and knocked.
Sarah opened the door and smiled “you came.”
“Of course,” Tamara said.
Sarah had flawless white skin, except for a few freckles on her nose. She was tall, and wore tan slacks and a ruby red sweater. Blonder hair was braided intricately and tucked behind her shoulders.
“I’ll put on some tea. Do you like peppermint?”
“Yes, thank you,” Tamara said, hanging her coat on the rack. She followed Sarah through the tidy living room to the kitchen and sat down on the counter. Sarah filled a cherry red kettle with water and set it on the stove. Smiling over her shoulder, she said, “I made some cookies if you’re hungry.”
“Sure.”
She removed a tray from the oven and held it up for Tamara, who took one and ate it in one bite, “Mmm, this is delicious,” she said, covering her mouth as she spoke.
“Thank you. Apparently culinary school wasn’t a waste of money after all. All I did was add a cup of sugar and –“
“Amber and I looked at apartments today,” she said, cutting her off.
Sarah paused, and then set the tray down. Leaning her hip against the refrigerator and folding her arms, she said, “Did you find anything? I hear there are some nice places on the east end of the city.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
Tamara slid down from the counter and tried to hug her, but she turned away, putting her hand to her forehead, “I can’t do this anymore, Tamara. I’m almost 30 and I need some stability in my life.”
“You’re only 27, but yeah, I know.”
“You need to decide, it’s either her or me.”
The kettle began to whistle. Sarah took it off the burner and poured two cups, handing one to Tamara. She moved to the kitchen table and sat down, cupping the Mickey Mouse mug between her hands. Steam swirled up, and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply the aroma of peppermint. Sarah followed and sat across from her, her light blue eyes trying to read Tamara’s face.
“I love you,” she reached across the table and took her hand, “what are you thinking?”
Tamara felt the warmth from the room envelope her, like Thanksgiving, when friends and family get together for one day, casting aside any bad feelings, because in the end what’s important is to love, and be loved. She opened her eyes and squeezed Saraha’s hand.
***
Amber came out into the living room to find Pat on the couch in his pajamas, watching TV. She walked passed him and stopped in front of the bookshelf, looking it over before squatting and rummaging around a pile of papers on the floor. She blew her bangs out of her eyes and stood, looking around, hands on hips. She checked the coffee table, then the kitchen table, sighing louder each time. Empty movie cases hung off the side of the cabinet in the living room, and a stack of DVD’s 4 inches high was on the floor beside it. She checked there too.
“Ugh!” she glanced at Pat and then coughed and cleared her throat several times. Finally she stomped to the front of the couch and kicked his shin.
“Hey!”
“Ow!” Pat leveled his gaze on her, rubbing his shin, “what?”
“Have you seen my digital camera?”
“Yeah, like I’m some kind of impotent, all knowing God or something. No I don’t know where your camera is.”
Amber’s lips twitched, and she folded her arms over her chest and tilted her head to the side, “Yeah, you’re definitely impotent, Pat, unless you meant omnipotent,” she said, “better keep studying your book.” Pat’s cheeks flushed and he lowered his eyes. Amber frowned, wishing she hadn’t said anything. She turned, when Pat said, “Where do you think Tamara is?” Amber faced him, pinching her palm between her nails, and glanced at the clock.
“I don’t know,” she lowered to sit beside him.
“How are you two doing?”
Amber shrugged.
“Are you happy with the relationship?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” Amber sighed, “But I need her. Besides, it’s a good match.”
“You know,” Pat began, “When I was in high school I was the captain of the football team, the stereotypical jock. I did everything I thought I was supposed to do. Senior year I asked the homecoming queen to be my date – she accepted, of course, it was more a formality than anything else, something high school royalty, if you can stomach that idea, did,” he adjusted his body to face her, and continued. “She was a bitch and I was miserable the whole time, like I knew I’d be. I almost left the dance to get drunk with my buddies, that’s when I saw Anita. She was a girl in our school who was in a wheelchair. Everyone politely ignored her, because she made us uncomfortable. I decided to do something unexpected – I asked her to dance, and it was the most fun I ever had at a dance. I had no idea how funny she was.”
Amber squinted, “Ok, so what?”
“The point is,” he continued, “is that I took that homecoming queen, Jennifer, to prom because I thought it was the natural choice. After I danced that night with Anita I decided to never make that mistake again.”
“Is that why you want to join the chess team?” she asked.
Pat shrugged, “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
Amber watched him disappear into his room and then stood to continue her search. She went through Tamara’s closet, and then her drawers. She found a small black box with a note under it. It read ‘Be mine’. She opened it and a heart shaped locket twinkled in her eyes. Putting it on, she walked to the Disney poster and looked at her reflection. She touched it with her fingertips, and then laughed, realizing it was like the one gracing Bell’s neck.
“We need to talk,” Tamara’s said from the doorway, nose red from the cold walk home.
Amber turned to face her, smiling, when she noticed Tamara staring at the locket with confusion and alarm.